


Who's a Good Boy?

by corrupted_quiet



Category: South Park
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkwardness, Collars, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Teasing, the most awkward transaction in south park history honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4890121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrupted_quiet/pseuds/corrupted_quiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Craig Tucker doesn't expect excitement in the pet shop he works at. But when two orange idiots walk in at the end of his shift, he can't help but try and make a little amusement for himself at their expense. After all, they should know not to buy collars for their kinkery at the store he works at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who's a Good Boy?

The sky is chalked with charcoal, a gradient of pitch and ash cast over the small mountain town, in these later hours of the night. All that can be seen of the scenery is darkened silhouettes, this musty window looking out the wall facing the woods and mountain range, showing a picturesque and charming image of the Colorado Rockies, the type of quaint nature scene that inspires elaborate paintings, depicting the glory of the simplicity of rustic life, the splendour of dwelling in a sylvan pocket of obscure Americana.

Or, maybe that’s what it would be, if Craig wasn’t seeing it through a musty window—mired with dirt now engrained in the glass, speckles of dust thick around the edges, a spider’s destroyed and abandoned web strewn across the top—in the employee’s only bathroom of the mom-and-pop pet supply store that, rather than surrender to the overbearing superstores with a –co or –mart tacked on the end, remains open just as late as the rest of them, staying in business out of the dying spirit of the American dream. That’s what Craig figures, but the only thing he cares about is that someone signs a name on a handsome cheque and then hands it over to him at the end of the week. And, after his side business dealing weed went down the drain with the legalisation, his cash flow diminished and his parents told him to get a _real_ job. Something he can actually put on a resume rather than a rap sheet, although no one looks two ways if it’s a white boy selling grass.

His head casually lolls from side to side, craned upwards to gaze unseeingly out the slender window, listening to the continuous stream of piss as it leaves his cock and cascades into the faux porcelain urinal. Dark yellow splashes against eggshell white, streaking down the walls to the drainage. It pools around the Pearl Pink urinal cake, the waxy circular chunk sitting over the grate, making sure the smell of pee doesn’t overpower the pervading pet store smell: the mixing stenches of kibbles, litter, and dried meat treats. It drains slowly, partly because the place is getting old, partly because Craig keeps clogging the drain with his cigarette butts, from when he smokes in the john despite the rules prohibiting. When has Craig Tucker ever _really_ given a damn about the rules, anyway?

He sighs, listless and tired, shoulders drooping as his lungs empty, empty like his bladder. He keeps one hand on his dick, keeping his aim from wavering as he reaches in his pocket. He searches for his phone, to pull out and check the time, see how much more of his life he’d waste in a dead shop for minimum wage when he could be at home jacking off and grinding Xbox achievements. Even his _thrills_ sound _dull_ , though, so he might add a few doses of cold medicine to the list. Just enough to make living suck a little bit less.

When people describe South Park as a sleepy little town, he couldn’t agree more; the ennui of life works better than a bottle of Tylenol PM. It’s so boring he could nod off and kill himself from an overdose of tedium. And when people describe South Park as a crossroads of the strangest of the strange, he couldn’t agree more; the amount of outlandish occurrences and bizarre phenomena stole all the fun out of life, with too much weird ass bullshit concentrated in one place to make anything distinguishable as normal. So everything became normal, humdrum, positively lame. Now the only thing that makes him interesting is his apathy and cynicism, but he’s still a damn conformist. Because, to the goths and the girls and _that_ collective of _fucktards_ , he raises his middle finger, like it’s a badge of honour, a flag of absurdism and defiance, a reason for them to remember his name.

Nothing like being seventeen and senile.

From the depths of his jeans, he rescues his iPhone, swinging it in his fingers. He thumbs over the cracks in the screen, cracks made from all the times Tweak borrowed his phone to make a call but then dropped it in a spasm, all the times Clyde walked past him and tripped over his feet knocking it from his hands, all the times Cartman threw a tantrum and out of everything on the table chose his phone to hurl across the room. Maybe, when he contributes to the smashed state, rather than it being someone else’s fault, he’ll consider replacing it. It’s not like he can’t still make calls and get drunken nudes on Snapchat.

Just as his finger pushes down on the lock button, Craig hears a deafening tone, an electronic mimic of a bell chiming. It’s the dumb alarm system, which also acts as a shop bell, alerting him whenever someone enters or exits the store, or just cracks the door. It drives him crazy, when he works in the mid-afternoon, because the volume is set so he can hear it no matter what square foot of the property he was standing on, and some people who know about his job pass by and open the door so he has to deal with it blaring at him while they go laughing away down the sidewalk.

But footsteps rap the wooden floor, making the boards creak. As they draw nearer, he catches muffled sounds—a voice—no, _two_ voices, caught in quick, minute paced conversation. He can’t make out a word, even as the stream of urine thins and only a few final drops drip off the head of his cock. The damn place was built in 1950-something with bomb shelter thick walls, so it’s impossible to hear anything beyond a looping sound clip of the adults on the Peanuts.

Not that what they’re talking about matters. What really matters is that Craig actually has to deal with customers. And at—

He glances at the now lit lock screen, at the slender numbers glowing over an old Doge meme: _so lock, much screen._

—Ten fifty-two at night.

Some people, he concludes, are just assholes.

Craig jostles, shaking off any little droplets still stuck to his skin, then zips himself up. Ignoring the _All Employees Must Wash Their Hands_ sign, he wipes a hand on his jeans as he tucks his cell away. Then, with a silent grumble and roll of the eyes, he walks to the door. He uses his elbow to push the handle down, then shoulders it open. As soon as it cracks, Craig can clearly pick up the bantering exchange:

“ _C’mon, this one looks like it’ll work fine on you!_ ”

“ _Are you serious? I am not wearing_ studs _and_ spikes.”

“ _Ya want the_ pink _one instead? The one with the_ bows _and the_ hearts?”

“ _I’m not a_ leatherbitch _or a_ pansyfairy, _cumfuck._ ”

He recognises these voices. _Immediately_. He knows them _too_ well, _who_ they belong to _too_ well.

And, for a second, he’s torn between _dread_ , having to deal with them at the end of his shift when he wants nothing more than to crawl back home and blast Mindless Self Indulgence, and _intrigue_ , presented with a particularly prime opportunity to relentlessly fuck with them when they want nothing more than to keep this quiet and sneak off without this being _awkward_. Of course, if they wanted to do _that_ , maybe they’d have the brains to remember where he works and avoid it like the plague rather than stroll in; acting like they can do whatever they _pleased_ , like the whole town is their _play_ ground.

Hell, this is _serendipity_ , a stroke of chance that works in his _favour_. Because he’s the only one working, this is the only shop open, and if they want what they want they’ll have to deal with him. And, after how many years as their rivals—sometimes in the playful sense, sometimes with stronger tones of hostility—and just plain putting up with their _bullshit_ , this is a great time for some good old fashioned _payback_.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, touched with glee as he meanders towards the accessory aisle. It only takes a few steps, in such a small store, Craig passing the section for food, the section for medicine, the section for toys, and then pausing at the barrel of saran-wrapped bones poised at the end of the aisle. He waits, finger tapping on the plastic rim, out of sight. He’ll enter when he hears his cue, determines the optimal time to interrupt; for now, he listens to each word exchanged:

“ _I just want something plain. We can always get another later.”_

_“C’mon, it’s a gift. For like… Yom Kippur or whatever.”_

_“You_ fast _and_ atone _for Yom Kippur, not have your_ boyfriend _get you a fucking_ dog collar _for_ sex _.”_

_“Sounds close ‘nough to me.”_

_“Ugh, I’m not even sure if I’ll_ like _this.”_

“ _Oh,_ you’re _not sure_ _but_ you’re _the one who fucking asked for one.”_

_“I thought you’d have one_ lyingaround _! I didn’t think you’d_ drag me _to a goddamn_ store _for one!”_

“ _Well I_ did _, so_ suck it _and help me pick out your first one… Why the_ fuck _don’t they have any in_ orange?”

_“Just get the black one.”_

_“This’ne?”_

_“Yeah, that’s fi—_ what are you _—?”_

_“Well, ya gotta try it_ on _first.”_

Enter stage right, Craig Tucker. His lips purse into a flat line, reverting to his default, nonchalant expression to hide any inkling of personal interest, and reminds himself to _enjoy_ the show he makes of this, _savour_ it. He takes a step into the aisle, lined with racks of collars for animals of assorted sizes, where two orange _idiots_ stand browsing the wares.

Kenny doesn’t notice Craig; too busy grabbing a thick, black leather collar from a hook, with a label reading _Large Dogs_. No one in this town actually owned a large dog—a _really_ big one, the type that often gets confused for a miniature bear, that slobber everywhere they go and act as steeds for shaky-legged toddlers and late-blooming kindergarteners alike—but _this_ store still kept a healthy stock of collars for them. Which, in Kenny’s book, is _quite_ convenient, since one fun fact he picked up over the years is that collars designed for _large dogs_ happen to work just as well for _humans_. Not to mention they cost _much less_ than specialty-made sex-shop brands, and sustain _much more_ wear-n-tear when it comes down to it. The only downside is it’s harder to find matching cuffs, but they’ll get to that another day, when Kyle weighs in his verdict on having something other than a _Magen David_ around his neck. Though, considering their _last_ venture, Kenny has a fairly positive outlook on how this will go.

He fiddles with the collar, moving the cardstock label and thoroughly examining the condition of the material, scanning for imperfections. He treats the ten dollar collar like a rare gem, and Craig can’t remember a time he’s seen Kenny looking so intensely and pensively at something in his life. Hell, it looks _professional_ , a quality rarely seen in a white trash hoodrat from bumfuck U S A.

Kyle stands beside him, peering over, too engrossed in Kenny’s actions to pay Craig any mind. He has his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his teeth burrow into his lip. He taps his foot, light and swift, as his green eyes switch between black leather and observant blue. He isn’t even aware how he wears his symptoms of impatience, how his whole aura is anxious. Not anxious out of uncertainty, more out of _frustration_. It’s the way he stands when he hangs out by the janitor’s closet, during his free period, when he checks the time and claims he isn’t waiting for anybody, even though his demeanour changes entirely when he catches a glimpse of Kenny cruising down the hall. Yet he _still_ thinks he’s _subtle_ and not _suspicious_ or _conspicuous_ in any way.

He shifts from the balls of his feet to his heels, letting out a sigh as Kenny flips the collar over. His eyes flit upwards, looking up at the tubular light fixture, counting the dead bugs and testing how long he can stare before he starts seeing fuzzy spots. He typically acts fairly cool, composed, contained, but that is _not_ the case tonight. For whatever reason, it must have _been_ _a while_. Craig wonders what counts as a while for them: a couple _days_ or a couple _hours_.

While Kyle fixes on the ceiling, Kenny nods his head, finally finishing his inspection, deeming this collar fit for _him_. He curves the label with a few crumples, then holds the collar to Kyle’s neck. He bends his knees, so he can be closer to Kyle’s height, and loosely wraps the strap around. The metallic fasteners clink, the little clatter prompting Kyle’s ears to perk and his eyes to return to Kenny. He reddens—slightly, just a tinge of colour added to the natural pallor—when he feels the leather against his throat.

“ _What?_ ” Kyle snaps, voice sharp, serrated. He sounds that way either because of Kenny’s abruptness or because of his own embarrassment. Craig can’t determine which, and he’s sure Kyle can’t either, especially when his lips quaver, unsure whether to frown or fold under his teeth.

Kenny grins, one of those cartoonish smiles he wears whenever something really excites him, toothy and goofy, stupidly giddy. His eyes glow, sparkling like the 2-D Japanese girls in his pirated manga collection, as his eyes look to Kyle. He reminds Craig of an idiotic golden retriever, wagging his tail in hard thumps against the ground, with a drooling open smile; the Air Bud of sexuality.

He hums, a honey smooth sound, as a finger plays with the buckle. The clinking matches the tempo set by Kyle’s foot. Kenny inches closer to Kyle’s face, smile growing the nearer they are. They have magnetic mouths, charged to compliment and draw one another in. But Kenny finds a stopping point, then lets out a short laugh, taunting Kyle to speak. He never emotionally matured past age nine, according to Craig, so rather than hold a normal conversation he teases, jokes, laughs. He doesn’t know why Kyle flashes a smile.

But he’s quick to hide it, even if Kenny saw the corners of his lips tease up for a second, shrugging it off with a casual roll of the eyes. He sighs to Kenny’s lips, then stares back into his eyes. His voice laced with light, playful sarcasm, he asks, “Do I look ‘ _cute_ ’ enough?”

Kenny wraps the collar more tightly around Kyle’s neck, so it clings to his skin, as he leans in. Their noses brush against each other, and even though he whispers it, Craig hears him reply, “ _Very_ cute.”

And they kiss, without fail, a chaste and polite kiss. Well, chaste and polite by _their_ standards, considering Kenny McCormick never learned to kiss without using his tongue and Kyle Broflovski has a terrible habit of sucking on anything put into his mouth. A taste-test, when they sample the espresso shots and beef jerky and Tic Tacs and Pabst still lingering on their lips. One of their warm-ups, that perpetual lead-up to whatever they do, _whenever_ and _wherever_ they end up doing it; always _ready_ , taking the Boy Scouts motto too far to heart. Again, they think they’re _discreet_.

Craig’s stomach churns, the sweetness mawkish enough to make anyone a little sick. But, he assures himself, waiting for this makes his entrance all the better, knowing full well the fun of spoiling the mood. Not that he planned on singlehandedly ruining their night—he’s not _Cartman_ —but he does regret that the security cameras never got around to being repaired.

Otherwise, he’d rip the DVD and post it straight to YouTube. Video title: Doggy Kisses. Description: Ken rewards his Good Boy. Predicted view count: two-point-five million, or at least everyone at South Park High. Small town viral is _still_ viral.

“ _’hem_ ,” He lets out a dry cough, the kind that hurts a little because of how the back of his tongue presses on his throat. Any evanescent hoarseness subsides with a swallow, saliva soothing the invisible wounds. He doesn’t know how believable it sounds—whether it seems natural or overly fake—but decides that isn’t the point.

The _point_ is the couple breaking their kiss, remembering where they are: a _pet store_ not a _bedroom_ , or _janitor’s closet_ , or _park bathroom_ , or wherever _else_ they’ve been _caught_ already. Their lips part with a _smack_ —one of those obnoxious _smacks_ that reminds Craig of old shows on TV Land with their over exaggerated sound effects—heads turning to look down the aisle. Two pairs of widened eyes meet Craig’s ice stare, his eyes cold and blue, contemptuously reserved and quietly judgemental.

He watches alarm resonate through Kyle, reflected in a stressed and glassy glint appearing in the green. His leg twitches, stops tapping, a quick jolt that speaks the words trapped in his throat, behind lips pressed in a stern line. The red tinge lingers under his cheeks, light but present, although Craig can’t say it’s entirely because of his interruption. Actually, he starts thinking Kyle looks surprised more than anything, something dazed about how he looks at him, like he’s coming down from the drug embedded in Kenny’s lips.

Kenny first raises his brows, shocked, but that quickly washes away, replaced instead by annoyance. He doesn’t do well hiding his emotions, not unless he tries, rarely exercising such finesse in social control when tossed into casual situations like this. So Craig doesn’t react when Kenny furrows his brows, tugs his lips into a crooked line, glowers in that childish way, that _you spoiled my fun_ way. The glow Kyle brought to the blue morphs into fires, Craig kicking the kindling and setting the forest aflame with malcontent and discord.

He loosens the collar around Kyle’s neck, letting one end freely swing around, disconnecting the ring. The label crinkles in his tightening grasp, as Kenny pulls the leather from around his neck and into his pocket, shoving it into the deep parka pockets, as though it will deter suspicion. Make it look like they’re shoplifting, the accusation of a criminal offense owning a better ring than having their exploits outed. Because their kink is a great _inside_ joke, in their minds; even though people _know_ Kyle didn’t get rope burns around his wrists helping his dad fix up the roof and Kenny didn’t get those scratch marks on his back from the stray cats loitering around his house.  

“ _Craig_ ,” Kenny says, in a tone that could cut. He cocks his head to the side, as he straightens up, changing his air. He grits his teeth, forcing a simper, hoping it looks as artificial as it feels.

Craig knows Kenny’s trying to act intimidating, mimicking what Kevin used to do when the McCormick kids got cornered by some middle-class thugs who thought their low socio-economic status made them weaker. That stance worked for Kevin, but when Kenny does it he just looks _awkward_ , trying too hard. Maybe when he dons the cape of Mysterion it strikes fear into the hearts of his enemies, but not when he hangs around in a traffic-cone orange outfit that accents just how lanky and scrawny he is, all height and next to no mass.

Kyle’s expression hardens, too, no longer caught off-guard, those feelings faded and his mind armed. Even though he’s shorter than Kenny by roughly a head, he looks a _lot_ scarier, with his piercing eyes that _do_ cut. His posture stiffens, and his hands turn in his pockets. Craig sees his hands ball into tightly clenched fists through the material of his coat, ready to throw a solid right-left combo should anything go awry. Not that he takes slurs in the derogatory, all those bad words losing their meaning to him in second grade, but they do provide a great excuse to break the nose of someone whose guts he hates. And, lean build aside, Kyle knows how to really _rock ‘em_ _sock ‘em_.

Craig blinks, allowing the agitation to stew inside them, boil up in their pupils. The atmosphere charges, leeching static from the furies awoken in the Kenny and Kyle, tension festering like infectious bacteria on an open, dirty wound. He bites back a smile, loving how much of a nuisance he is to them, watching their frustration—at his mere presence—consume them.

“How can I help you, tonight?” His nasal voice remains level, calm, unfazed. Each knifelike glare misses its target, Craig unscathed by their sourness and displeasure. He rolls his shoulders back, and his eyes wander from their faces to Kenny’s pocket, where the buckle of the collar sticks out, noticeably. He leans back on his heels.

Kenny’s chest rises and falls with his heaving sigh, in attempt to regain a semblance of composure. It might have worked, if Kyle hadn’t been so adamant about fasting _sexually_ for the damn New Year’s Atonement and if Kenny hadn’t found himself _indisposed_ a day or so due to a little mishap involving the garage door and a lawn mower. All he feels after his deep breath is more exasperation, because for some reason the forces of the universe don’t want them to fuck tonight, not that they’ve been ones to listen to words that disagree with theirs.

Kyle’s teeth grind, making no effort to conceal his irritation. Partly because they’re dealing with Craig, and he feels no obligation to feign politeness and courtesies; partly because he plain _needs_ this, and he lost all motivation to explain himself into a state of relaxation as soon as Kenny said “ _I’ve got a surprise for you_.” Because if there’s one thing Kenny provides him it’s a _break_ , when he can cut loose and not feel guilty about it, when he can get wasted and not worry over the outside responsibilities, when he can be whatever he wants and not require justification from others. And he’ll be _damned_ if Craig stands in the way of his release.

He elbows Kenny, jogs him out of the fixed gaze he has on Craig. Kenny looks at him, raising his brows and shrugging his shoulders, a quiet ‘ _What do you want?_ ’ gesture. Kyle nods his head to Kenny’s pocket, motioning him to take it out, since they planned on _buying_ it anyway. For a moment, he flashes Kenny a smile, reassuring him that they can deal with this, _quickly_ , and then get back to their plans. Something in his eyes suggests they may even _speed them up_. Kenny catches on to that, and Craig sees his lips tease a grin.

“Yeah,” Kenny pulls the collar from his pocket, holding it. Craig’s eyes follow, and Kenny doesn’t continue until the blue looks back at him, “I wanna buy this.”

Craig lightly bites the inside of his cheek, tilting his head back, “We don’t take _food stamps_.”

Kenny narrows his eyes, seeing that’s how things are going to go. Well if Craig is going to be an asshole, fine: “ _I got_ _cash_.”

“That collar‘s eleven forty-nine,” He allows the slightest smile to slip, and drawls out, like a smooth drag from a cigarette, “ _Sure_ that’s in your _price range_ , McCormick?”

No, Kenny isn’t that sensitive about his poverty-line existence, but he is _on edge_ , and Craig is just _pushing buttons_. That’s enough to warrant a snide attitude.

Kyle picks up on this, predicting a nasty showdown of words that, realistically, bring them no closer to their goal. And, realistically, Kyle wants them to get _out_ and get _to it_. So, when Kenny opens his mouth to answer, he interjects, “ _We’ve got enough, Craig_.”

Craig turns his attention to Kyle, sparing Kenny no further mind. He just stares, blankly, for a long time. He watches Kyle bite the inside of his lip, his shoulders arch, unhappy with being _observed_. He looks no more at peace when Craig smiles, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes.

“ _Fine_ ,” He refuses to break from Kyle’s eyes, even though he feels Kenny’s gaze bore into him. But Kenny can glower and glare all he wants, like the overgrown child he is, Craig is going to _relish_ this. With a casual shrug, he adds, “I just never knew Kenny had a _dog_.”

Kyle opens his mouth, then quickly shuts it, too mad or too flustered. For the moment, he’s too frustrated to feel fully offended. He can’t even think about punching him. A low growl comes from Kenny, seething where he stands. He clenches his jaw, so much that it dully aches on one side. It takes a lot for him not to kick him, right where it hurts.

Craig, meanwhile, walks between them, his arms bumping both of them as he strolls down the aisle, towards the shoddy register. He stops walking just in front of the small swinging door to the employee side of the counter, then calls out to them from over his shoulder, “You getting’ anything else? Or you paying?”

The two look at one another, both at a loss for words. Instead, they communicate through looks and expressions, each facial feature coded. Kenny purses his lips, asking Kyle how mad he’d be if he walked right over and slammed Craig’s head onto the register. Kyle raises his brows, cautioning him against it if only because of the potential police report. Kenny frowns, begging him to reconsider. Kyle rolls his eyes, then grabs Kenny’s sleeve. Kenny looks down, as Kyle gives a light tug, then back into his eyes. Kyle smiles, slightly, moving a step closer, fingers brushing the back of Kenny’s palm, reminding him _why_ they’re there. Craig messing with _them_ shouldn’t get in the way of them messing around with _each other_.

Craig waits, though his smile fades a bit, disappointed at the comfort their mute conversation provides. He watches Kenny glance down at their hands, then back to Kyle. He puts on another goofy smile, the kind that says _I could kiss you silly right now and **then** some_ , and Kyle returns the gaze readily; it makes him _ill_. Affection was never his cup of tea, and when _they_ do it—in any form, however minor—it becomes _insufferable_.

When they tear away from each other, deciding to follow to the register, Craig pushes open the swinging door and crosses to the other side. He eyes them closely as they approach, rounding around the opposite side. They’re still tense, with rigid muscles and harsh body language, but not as much. Their little exchange consoled them, to a degree. And Craig just can’t allow that; that’d be getting off far too easily.

Kenny slams the collar down on the counter, disturbing the small plastic container filled with various catnip infused miniature mice and the bowl of leftover dog treats. The buckle screeches as Kenny drags it from his end to Craig’s, barely suppressing a smirk at the unnecessary noise. A small play, in a passive battle, but one he finds pride in nonetheless. Call it immature, call it douche-y, it’s far more satisfying than swallowing the crap shovelled at them.

Kyle watches, finding Kenny’s show more on the overdramatic side, but lifting no finger to stop him. Instead, hidden under the counter, he laces their fingers together, into a neat clasp. He tilts his head to the side when he squeezes his hand, seizing his victory through the public displays Kenny always begs him to make more often. Tonight can be an exception to his usual stance against identifying as the more cuddly type, choosing to embrace it and show off the way the straight couples on the television do.

Craig grabs the leather, before Kenny finishes pushing it, snatching it from his hands. The collar dangles as he holds it up to his face, purposely ignoring the clearly printed price tag. As the leather sways, he catches out of focus glimpses at the pair. Whenever Kenny looks like he’s about to bark at him, tell him to stop fucking around, Kyle tightens his grip. After a few times, Kyle’s patience wears thin, noted by the drooping of his shoulders.

“So,” He finally says, determining their level of aggravation sufficient. He places the collar back on the counter, right next to the register, then stares dead into Kenny’s eyes, “Do you want a free tag?”

“ _Tag?_ ” Kenny knows Craig is just killing their time, and makes no effort to elaborate.

“Yeah, name tag,” His eyes shift from the blue to the green. The spark of fury in Kyle’s eyes sends a surge of smug satisfaction through him, “Custom ‘ne.”

“I don’t need a damn name tag,” Kenny uses his _serious_ voice, that stern tough guy tone he only puts on when they’re playing superhero or when he’s beating on bullies after Karen. Aggressively defensive, defensively aggressive, the protective manner that always turns Kyle on. Craig can’t tell who he’s using it for.

“You sure? I can whip one up quick ‘nough,” Craig _smiles_ , his mask cracking. The grin makes Kyle uneasy, but he can’t break eye contact. Craig’s gaze bores into him too furiously for him to look away, no matter how much he wants to. Instead, he endures, as Craig goes on, “’Specially a short name. Like, S-L-U-T, or B-I-T-C-H, or K-Y—”

“ ** _Craig_** ,” The word echoes, in the small shop, like a boom of thunder. Kenny rarely loses his temper, rarely raises his voice, but the way Craig mouths off… Anyone would be beyond _pissed off_. But he can’t _hit_ him, no matter how much he acts like a bastard, just shoot a dark, dirty look, warning him that, at any other time, Craig would be eating shit right now; he’s damn lucky they’re on a _tight_ schedule.

“Huh?” Craig looks back to Kenny. Those eyes could burn, but Craig loves playing with matches, “Hear one you like? Or you want something like ‘If found return to’ or ‘Property of’ or ‘Likes _big redneck bones_ and _dirty hick_ _ana_ —‘”

Kyle slams two bills on the counter. Two tens, crinkled around the edges, one Hamilton looking like he’d been through a few washes and the other like a vending machine reject. His hand doesn’t shake, but Craig sees his wrist quiver. He awoke the Broflovski temper, and for a split second he wonders if he went too far.

Kenny’s mouth hangs open, about to interrupt anyway, but upon the _bang_ promptly looks to Kyle. His eyes show concern, expression softening when his eyes fall on him, and he shuts his mouth. The hand holding his trembles, clings to the gaps in his knuckles. He and Kyle have been together—platonically, romantically, sexually, and otherwise—long enough for him to know when Kyle loses it. And, boy, is he _about_ to. Kenny isn’t sure if he should smile or not.

“ _Does this cover it?_ ” Kyle asks, _growls_. His lips pull up, baring his teeth in a snarl, losing any reservation. He has a breaking point, and once he passes it, _everything_ is fair game. He may scold Kenny for dropping hints about their sex life, but when Kyle crosses the line, he could go into _detail_ just to _scare_ people _off_. The hard stare he gives Craig, the eyes that look like a dwindling timer on a homemade bomb, acts as a heed of caution: hurry up or the _collar_ will look like _hand holding_ in comparison. And, God, can he think of a few _stories_.

Chills run down his spine, but Craig shows no reaction, refuses granting Kyle that privilege. His eyes flit to Kenny, whose simple smirk taunts him, and he knows he’s cornered. He lets out a sigh; can’t a guy score a few laughs these days?

He avoids Kyle’s fingers, grabbing the money by the utmost edges. He slides the bills from under his hand, while his other hand punches the numbered keys into the register. He looks to double check the price, but Kyle snatches up the collar before he can.

Kyle puts the label between his teeth and rips it off, with a loud tear. The remains fall from the collar to the floor, and he spits out the piece in his mouth.  Letting go of Kenny’s hand, he reaches up, holding the leather in place as he weaves the end through the buckle. He slides the fastener through the last hole, ensuring maximum tightness. Some of the black strip sticks out, the collar a little too big, but he doesn’t care.

Kenny gulps, but _not_ out of nervousness. He bites his lower lip, as Kyle adjusts the collar around his neck, so the buckle presses to his throat. Every time he blinks, he only looks more dazed, more stupid. He only snaps out of it when Kyle grabs the collar of his coat, and starts _dragging_ him.

“Keep the change,” Kyle flashes Craig a self-righteous grin. The flare in his eyes screams what he scarcely holds back saying: _I’m gonna lead this moron somewhere **secluded** , have him **pet me sweet** and **rub me nice** , then let him **fuck me hard and sloppy** against a wall until I **scream** and **beg** so he **calls me a mutt** and I’ll **love every second** of it. _

Craig stands frozen, blinks twice, takes it in. The words never left Kyle’s lips, but he can _visualise_ it, _vividly_. Kenny’s fingers clutching crimson curls, Kyle’s legs hooked around a thin waist, the cacophony of _clinking_ and _banging_ and _screaming_.

His eyes follow them, as Kyle tugs Kenny along, to the door. The realisation finally hits Kenny, just what he’s in for, and his expression goes _stupid_ happy. As Kyle pushes on the door, activating the electronic bell, Kenny glances back at Craig, _winks_. Craig swears he sees him mouth _‘Thank you’_ , just before the door shuts.

The store falls back to its typical, tranquil state, no longer disturbed by the presence of customers. The aisles sit empty, the merchandise still, and even the air conditioner stays quiet. It’s a little shop carved out in the forgotten reaches of America, where most things stay unbothered by the larger, founded on the dreams of simple people who wanted little more than to make an honest earning in a tiny little mountain town with a name never found on a map.

It takes him a bit, to return from his trance, finally bleach out enough of the imaginations to manage one thought. He looks down, fishes his phone back out of his pocket, and clicks the home button.

Eleven o-six.

Finally, the end of his shift.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the imagined awkward encounters I live off. Maybe one day we'll find out what Kenny and Kyle do after they leave the pet store... :)


End file.
